"You knew I ran away. Did you once ask where I've been staying? Whether I was okay?"
"Oh wait—I forgot. Your heart's too busy chasing after your mistress. You didn't even show up to your own wife's funeral. And you have the audacity to criticize how she raised me?"
Dad slammed his chopsticks down. His hand flew up to strike me.
Glenda's eyes darted. She caught his arm just in time, playing peacemaker.
"Honey, don't. The poor girl's grieving. We should be understanding." She patted his chest. "I'm fine, really."
Then she smiled—that sickly-sweet smile.
"Besides, if you bruise her face, how will she stand next to Christina as my bridesmaid?"
Everything stopped.
My voice came out raw, scraped hollow.
"What did you just call him? You're married?"
"Mom's been dead for seven days, and you couldn't wait to bring your mistress home as your wife?!"
Dad's expression hardened. Not a shred of shame.
"Your mother's gone. What—I'm supposed to mourn her forever?"
"Christina's grown now. I can't let people keep calling her a bastard. This is my responsibility as her father!"
Responsibility.
I sank into the chair, laughter spilling out of me—bitter, broken. Tears streamed down my face.